


The third kind

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Daryl hates people sometimes, M/M, Mild Gore, Nudity, Swearing, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Witcher Daryl Dixon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22785628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: There are three sorts of people, all divided into neat categories based on how they react when faced with something that has way too many teeth, extra limbs, and has a disturbing habit of being a murderous beast. Daryl has met them all.Nothing, nothing could have prepared him for Rick Grimes.Or:Daryl Dixon is a witcher. Rick Grimes is not. It's... complicated.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes
Comments: 28
Kudos: 67





	1. Three kinds of people

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This chapter contains non-graphic mention of assault on a young woman. If you are bothered by such themes, please consider skipping the short paragraph that starts with "Thankfully, the good townspeople". Only this one. 
> 
> Besides that, happy reading!

Generally, after years of observation and first-hand experience, witchers seem to agree that people tend to react in one of three ways when faced with monsters:

The first is by far the most common and, indeed, the most natural: fear. In this short four-letter word are included a whole wide variety of things, such as sweating profusely, shaking like a leaf on a stormy night, screaming, lack of control over the bladder or, in more dire cases, the sphincter, and all of the other tell-tale signs of good, old-fashioned horror. While it’s not considered especially honorable, the majority of people let their fear get the better of them and flee, which is probably the wisest thing they could do when coming face to face with something that really just wants to eat them. Unsurprisingly, those folk who succumb to fear and run away are those who are most likely to survive the encounter.

Then there are the hero types. Sometimes they are born into their attitude, sometimes it is taught to them or, even worse, expected of them in spite of them showing no indication of being especially good at slaying monsters. Regardless of their reasons, these sorts of people have one thing in common: when faced with a man-eating beast, their first reaction is to draw a weapon and fight it, to various measures of success. Some of them even live to tell the tale and, if they’re particularly lucky, to become kings, queens, or mayors in their respective kingdoms, queendoms and whatever it is a mayor governs over.

And besides those two more common types, there exists a third kind of human. The most elusive kind. The kind who stares into the abyssal depths of the dozen of eyes with slits for pupils in front of them, sees the six rows of teeth distributed somewhat evenly between the three jaws snapping at them, barely evades the sweeping blow of giant paws with protruding ten-inch claws; the kind who looks at all that, and decides, _Damn, I wanna fuck that._

Daryl Dixon belongs to none of those types because he’s not really considered human. If one had to argue semantics, he supposes he’s vaguely human-like in that he’s a witcher, and witchers are generally born human. There’s some pretty heavy magical shit involved in the transformation, some shit that Daryl doesn’t even pretend to know the first thing about; suffice it to say, nobody would look into his eyes and call him _man,_ which is both a good thing and a bother in equal amounts. 

Being a witcher, however, Daryl comes into contact with all sorts of people. He’s had his fair share of dealings with villagers so terrified of the monster lurking in the woods, they all but threw their life savings at him in return for his killing the beast. He’s worked for scared dukes and mayors who just wanted to have the job done without it coming out that they’re too cowardly to take matters into their own hands. Unfortunately, he’s also seen and met men - funny how it’s almost always men, not women who do this kind of shit - men who thought they had all under control. The hero types. Their shiny sets of armor and pretty decorative swords could do little against a wyvern or a gryphon, but hell, at least they fetched a good price at the traders’. Only once did he meet a hero who wasn’t a monster snack, and that hero was a woman who killed a damn wendigo with her bare hands to save her daughter. Which Daryl can’t help but still be impressed - and vaguely terrified - about, even a whole decade later.

And of course, being who he is, Daryl’s had enough opportunities to meet the third type of people. Those he affectionately dubbed _monster-fuckers,_ which he thinks is much less rude of a moniker than that whole bunch of crazies deserve.

First, there was Eric Raleigh, and he was the mildest case of insane Daryl’s met over the years: he fell in love with a vampire. It was all nice and dandy, honestly. The vampire was male, so there was no chance for any uncontrollable offspring, and he turned out to be very open to Eric’s advances. Despite his initial misgivings, Daryl eventually helped the two get together and even found them a nice abandoned castle in the mountains where they could live away from unsuspecting humans for as long as it suited them. That was about a hundred years ago, but he still regularly gets letters from the both of them, Aaron’s slightly too long-winded and flowery for Daryl to actually read them. They’re good for lighting a fire, so there’s that.

The second monster-fucker he met was Philip, the mayor of a calm little mountain town called Woodbury, and he was one of the weird ones. The town’s food supplies started dwindling and no caravans were coming from the nearby town, and Daryl who was in the area was asked to investigate. What he found was a wraith haunting the tract. When he returned to the town with a set price to kill it, the mayor decided he wouldn’t pay anything unless he could watch the witcher slay the monster, with his own eyes. 

“Suit yerself,” Daryl replied because he didn’t care about the audience as long as there was gold at the end of the ordeal. 

The problem arose as soon as the idiot mayor saw the wraith. It had the general shape of a young woman dressed in a white flowing gown - which is often the case with wraiths on mountain tracts, for some reason, as if a white gown was even remotely appropriate of a mountain hike attire - and its face was missing a sizeable chunk. The hole where the eye and cheek should’ve been was filled with sharp little teeth. Daryl didn’t look too closely, but he could also swear there were maggots in there. The thing’s skin was pale like chalk and the dress it was wearing seemed to be hanging by the thread, showing off a patch of rotting flesh here and there.

So, quite a generic wraith right there. It was a good thing the mayor was there with him, so Daryl could ask about there being any unsolved young women deaths in the last decade. Killing a wraith required a bit more than just a little sword fight, after all.

But when he turned to face the mayor, he found him standing there dumbstruck, eyes locked on the wraith, mouth wide open - and his trousers obscenely tented at the front. 

Well, shit.

Maybe the women in Woodbury weren’t especially pretty, or maybe Philip was just a sick son of a bitch; whatever the reason, the sight of that gaping maw filled with teeth opening wide to try and chomp down on Daryl’s arm made the dumb fuck of a mayor instantaneously fall in love. 

“Dude, snap out of it,” Daryl hissed, dodging the wraith’s attack like a champ in spite of his distraction. “What the fuck’s wrong with ya?”

“She’s beautiful,” Philip replied, voice filled with awe. He took a step towards the creature.

Daryl tried to hold him back, but Philip socked him in the jaw; while not particularly painful, the blow came as a surprise and Daryl let go of the mayor for all of thirty seconds: enough to let the dumb motherfucker throw himself in front of the wraith, go to one knee in front of her and proclaim his undying love.

He exclaimed loud enough for half of the county to hear him: “Oh Andrea, my Andrea! Did you come back for me? We’re meant to be, you and I! This time, I swear I won’t abandon you, my love. If you marry me, we will-”

Daryl didn’t get to hear how the impromptu marriage proposal went in its entirety, however, because the next thing he knew, the mayor was a mostly eviscerated corpse on the ground and the wraith was rearing its ugly head and snarling at him.

Thankfully, the good townspeople of Woodbury didn’t blame Daryl for their mayor’s death. Apparently, about ten years ago, there was a young woman named Andrea who wasn’t very interested in marrying the then-accountant Philip. He didn’t take the refusal lightly; rumor had it, he hired some goons who broke into the girl’s house when her family was away. She survived whatever happened that night, but when it turned out she was pregnant, the whole town turned on her and drove her out. They didn’t see her again and people just assumed she found somewhere to live in one of the neighboring villages. It was a shock to everyone when Daryl told them she died. 

The incident wasn’t linked with Philip back then and in time, it was gradually forgotten, so the previous month, the man was elected mayor of Woodbury on account that he was good at acquiring money. Coincidentally, that was about when the supplies stopped coming and the hauntings on the tract began. 

Daryl hated these sorts of stories. He also hated mayor Philip, but hell, the dude got his due. As a witcher, he did his job; he went through Philip’s stuff and found a necklace that belonged to poor Andrea. He burned it on a small pyre outside of town, accompanied by the girl’s remaining family: the only funeral she ever had. The townspeople paid him a handsome amount for the wraith’s demise, fed him with the last of their supplies which they didn’t begrudge him now that they knew the tract was safe to travel again, and sent him on his merry way. They didn’t seem all too sad about the mayor’s loss.

 _Just desserts,_ Daryl thought, and moved on.

That was over fifteen years ago. Not much later, Daryl met Gareth. The man didn’t look like much at first glance. He hired the witcher for a simple job: he needed the family crypt cleared of necrophages. Turned out, that wasn’t what he had in mind. In fact, he was very displeased when Daryl left the crypt intact. 

“You murdered my Molly!” He accused, and from the bullshit he spouted, Daryl learned much more about how someone could fuck a ghoul than he ever wanted to know.

Ended up killing Gareth, too. The damn madman was eating human flesh to _become a ghoul too,_ and he was sending unsuspecting folk to the crypt to be torn apart and devoured as a _wedding gift to Molly._ That Molly being a big, nasty-ass alghoul. 

Fucking monster-fuckers.

After Gareth, there was a young blond girl whose name Daryl doesn’t remember. She apparently fell in love with a nightcrawler, and she tried to pay Daryl to kill her family for standing in the way of her happiness. Why any human woman would think the road to happiness leads through bedding a mostly harmless creature with the sentience of a sponge was beyond Daryl, really. The girl cussed him out like a professional sailor when he declined: he had to ask around about some of the words she used, and he performed a brief counter-curse ritual just in case something stuck. As far as he knows, the girl’s family succeeded in putting her in an asylum for lost souls. Good for them.

Next was the old fisherman Dale, who spent half his life chasing after a siren, of all things, even though he knew very well that real sirens had literally nothing in common with the romantic literature portrayals of them. And apparently, his courting was acceptable to the siren in question: for some reason, the creature didn’t eat Dale over the years he tried to approach her. When Daryl was hired by the nearby port town to take out a whole damn herd of drowners, Dale’s siren even helped him out. 

“You can now leave us be, witcher,” Dale said. “If she chooses to kill me after all, I will die happy.”

It didn’t sit well with Daryl to just condemn a man to becoming dinner, so he hung around for a few days, watching the fisherman and his siren. What he saw… was strange, to say the least. The siren kept close to Dale’s little hut by the sea and brought little gifts to his doorstep. Sometimes, those were pieces of trash, like fragments of fishing nets, colorful sea glass and broken ceramics. Other times, they were food, or what the siren considered to be food; thankfully, Daryl didn’t see any human flesh among the offerings. 

Once, the siren left a sizeable black pearl on the windowsill. Dale’s face lit up when he found it, and he spent the entire day in his hut doing something noisy. Daryl thought maybe the man was packing up his shit so he could leave with the treasure and move somewhere to live out his days as a rich man - but no. That evening, he saw Dale walk out to the pier where he usually sat for hours, throwing freshly caught fish for his siren to grab and feast on. This time, what he gave her was a necklace: the black pearl set on a chain made of golden wire. How a fisherman got hold of so much gold, Daryl didn’t know. 

What he knew was, the siren accepted the necklace and put it around her neck, and when the two finally embraced for the first time, there was no gutting involved and nobody was eaten alive. 

As far as Daryl knows, the fisherman and the siren lived out Dale’s final years in the fisherman’s hut by the sea. He let them be; he went back to the port town, collected his reward for the drowners and then told everyone the area around the fisherman’s hut was still terribly haunted and wouldn’t be safe to travel for a long time yet.

Then after that, while he was just passing through Georgia, he was called to the court of King Derek to cure his daughter, princess Lori. The girl was said to have been cursed, but by whom or why, nobody could tell. The job paid well and Daryl decided, why not? He liked curse-breaking jobs. They usually required some effort, but the pay-off was well worth it, and anyway, he had some time to spare because the local armorsmith needed time to rework his arm guards. 

As Daryl soon found out, there was no actual curse involved, at least not in relation to the princess. The dumb girl had, in fact, fucked a literal, giant-ass fiend, and she somehow managed to get pregnant by it. There wasn’t much Daryl could do save for finding a midwife who wouldn’t flinch away from doing what was necessary. He couldn’t very well abort the pregnancy by himself: he didn’t know shit about human anatomy. 

That contract wasn’t really a spectacular success of Daryl’s, to be honest. The princess ended up dead, the beastly baby ate a few people in the royal court - including the midwife. The fiend father turned out to be the cursed prince of Walsh, and everybody was rather unhappy with the outcome. Especially Daryl because he didn’t get paid, even though he managed to lift the curse from both the prince and the baby.

“You tried, but the princess is still dead,” said the guard who escorted Daryl to the dungeon and then graciously let him escape. “It’s bad luck to imprison a witcher,” he explained his decision not to lock the cell. “You be gone before sunrise, you hear? Don’t ever come back.”

What pissed Daryl off even more was that he had to leave the arm guards behind, so not only did he earn nothing from the whole ordeal, he actually ended up at a loss.

All of that, and more, over the years, made Daryl very suspicious of people seeking out to hire him; the monster-fuckers tended to hide so well among normal folk, it seemed. But as luck would have it, he caught almost two years of a break from this bullshit: he didn’t come across any more of the third type until last June, when roaming the sparsely-populated plains around the Abandoned Sanctuary, he came upon a man calling himself Negan. 

From the first moment, he knew there was something wrong with the man, not least because his medallion gave a feeble thrum of warning at Negan’s approach. But Daryl ignored the warning sign; his medallion was known to react to the slightest shifts in magical balance, so he sort of assumed Negan might’ve dabbled in witchcraft or something. He’s met some witches before and they weren’t all so bad, plus this Negan dude was sort of good-looking in that ruggedly handsome way women swoon over and that Daryl’s learned to appreciate over the years. 

“You’re not bad looking yourself, witcher,” the man said, giving Daryl the once-over. “From what I heard of your kind, I expected someone more… well, hideous.”

“Folks exaggerate when they’s scared,” Daryl replied with a shrug. He wasn’t especially interested in what people had to say about him, but damn. Hideous? That stung a little.

“And isn’t that the fucking truth,” Negan agreed with a wistful sigh. “Come, witcher. I’ll introduce you to my wife. You’ll find she’s not only a formidable cook, she also shares my appreciation for all the ways a man can be… flexible,” he added, and the way he looked at Daryl was positively lecherous. 

Daryl was intrigued by the prospect of getting to know this man and his wife for all of the five minutes it took for Negan to lead him to what he called his _humble abode._ Humble was one way to call it: it was a cave, plain and simple, a cave with scarce furniture that looked either old as fuck or hand-made by someone very heavy-handed. But it wasn’t the cave that made Daryl decide he was fucking done with this shit.

It was the wife.

“This is Lucille, my beloved, my star in the night,” Negan said with his voice positively brimming with love and pride. Daryl blinked very hard, hoping to clear his vision, because instead of a woman, pretty or otherwise, he was faced with an honest-to-hell rock troll. Unfortunately, no amount of blinking could dissipate the truth in front of him. Negan’s so-called wife was still a troll.

“What the fuck,” Daryl said, because there wasn’t much else he could really say in the face of… well, this.

“Negan my love,” the troll said. It was difficult to tell from the sound of its voice alone whether it was really female, but hell. Daryl wasn’t about to judge based on _this._ There were plenty of other aspects of the situation he could judge all he liked. “We fuck witcher?”

“Y’all certainly will NOT fuck this witcher,” Daryl told the troll, very firmly.

Negan had the gall to actually _pout_ at him. “Can’t you reconsider, man? It’s been a while since we found someone as… resilient as you, to warm our bed.”

“No way,” Daryl said. He wasn’t budging on this. He was certainly _not._

The troll gave him what seemed to be a measuring glance. “No fuck?” It asked. 

Daryl nodded, meeting its one visible eye boldly. “No fuck,” he confirmed, in case a verbal confirmation was required.

The troll then grinned, or grimaced, or whatever it was that its face did at that moment. It announced: “Then we eat good. Witcher soup tonight!” - and it made a lunge at Daryl as to capture him.

There wasn’t any witcher soup to be eaten that night, but Daryl didn’t kill neither the troll nor its adoring husband. Not because he didn’t want to; he did, if only so he could erase the thought about the logistics of a troll-human-witcher threesome that popped up, unbidden, in his mind. He didn’t kill them because the damn troll was easily twice his size and damn near damage-proof, and Negan had a spiked bat he was waving about like a maniac. The smartest course of action was to run for his life and never look back.

He knows his pride will eventually lead him back to that cave to finish the job. Perhaps when someone offers to pay him for it. For the time being, he warned all the travellers he’s met who were travelling in the direction of the Abandoned Sanctuary. If they chose to ignore his warnings and head there anyway, well, it’s not Daryl’s fault if they ended up in Lucille and Negan’s cauldron, the poor bastards. 

He could only hope it was the cauldron and not the bed they ended up in, at least. Seemed like a more humane death as far as he was concerned… unless any of those pilgrims were in fact dirty monster-fuckers themselves, in which case, Daryl hoped they got what was coming to them. 

So all things considered, after Eric, Philip, a dead princess and Negan with his creepy wife, it can be said that Daryl Dixon is disturbingly familiar with the concept of people having the hots for monsters. If asked, he could tell you he’s seen everything, and nothing on this subject matter could even surprise him anymore, that’s how damn familiar he is with all them monster-fuckers out in the world. From the least weird shit to stuff he wishes he could erase from his brain, the witcher is probably the world’s only expert on human-monster relations and how _not_ to pursue them.

Unfortunately, none of his experiences hitherto could’ve prepared him for meeting Rick fucking Grimes.


	2. Into the monster's jaws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl takes a contract on a supposed monster allegedly killing people in the woods around the town of Alexandria. While gathering information in the local inn, he meets someone interesting.

It starts like every other job Daryl has ever done: with a contract. There’s something killing people in the woods around Alexandria. Nobody knows what it is because apparently, the monster is very particular about leaving no survivors. The new mayor is young and determined, so there’s good coin to be earned from killing the mysterious beast. 

Daryl takes the job only because the mayor’s old dad, Hershel Greene, saved his life a few years ago. He suspects the murders in the woods aren’t related to monster activity, but rather there must be a bandit camp around. Otherwise, how come nobody’s seen the beast? Daryl asked around, talked to the local hunters, one or two merchants and a lumberjack who’s worked in these woods his entire life. There haven’t been any sightings of anything unusual. Not a glimpse of the beast itself, any droppings or even the remains of its alleged victims. Either the monster’s invisible, or it simply doesn’t exist.

Joe, the somewhat shady innkeeper, has his own ideas about the topic which he’s very keen on sharing with anybody willing to listen:

“‘s a wolf, I claim,” he says. “A big one! A king wolf. You hear ‘im howl in the night like all of hell’s demons are listenin’ to the sound of ‘is damned concerto.”

“A wolf,” Daryl mutters and takes a swig of his ale. It’s positively vile, but it’s on the house. He’s not about to go complaining about a free drink, even if it were the worst fucking thing he’s ever chugged down - and it isn’t. “An’ y’all heard this wolf?”

“Nah,” one of the patrons scoffs. “Joe’s been hearin’ wolves ever since his brother got done taken by one, will be twenty years ago. Man’s obsessed,” he adds, and laughs. The others laugh with him. 

Joe the innkeep growls and chucks a rag at the guy. “Stop runnin’ your damn dumb mouth about things y’all know nothing about anyways,” he snaps. “There be a wolf in those woods, I’ll swear on my right hand!”

Despite the general scepticism of the other townsfolk, Daryl thinks about it. A wolf doing what these people claim the monster’s doing might be a stretch, but a werewolf? Yeah, quite possible. They’re vicious creatures, highly intelligent from their human part, and bloodthirsty to boot from the wolf. Great hunters, too, unmatched by any other beast Daryl’s heard of. Tough to kill, but at least they’re vulnerable to silver - and as luck would have it, Daryl, as a witcher, is in possession of a sword made entirely out of the precious metal. 

Yeah, a werewolf killing people and hiding the bodies would actually make sense.

“You’re that witcher the folk around here are talking about?” Asks a man sitting next to Daryl, on his right. He’s been silent so far, listening to the general chatter in the inn much like Daryl’s been doing. He’s younger than most patrons: looks to be no more than thirty years old, though it’s a bit hard to estimate with the thick, well-kept beard covering half of his face. His eyes are what captures Daryl’s attention: big and sultry, surrounded by surprisingly long eyelashes, and blue, so  _ damn  _ blue it’s hard to believe there’s no trick of light or some other magic involved in their incredible hue somehow. 

He’s smiling as he looks at Daryl, and that smile, were it on a woman, could only be interpreted one way:  _ interested.  _ But it’s on a man, and Daryl’s learned from past mistakes to be very cautious about such things, even if he thinks he can detect a hint of the particular sort of  _ interested  _ in the man that he’d be, well, interested in returning. 

“‘less there’s another witcher runnin’ about I ain’t seen, yeah, that’d be me,” he says to the man’s question, returning the smile with a quirk of his lips and a nod. “Name’s Daryl. Who might ya be?”

“Rick Grimes,” the man replies, and nods back. He doesn’t try to shake Daryl’s hand, which is a good thing. Daryl’s never liked that strange gesture, though admittedly, he wouldn’t mind touching Rick Grimes’ hand. Or other parts of him, he’s not choosy.

“So, Daryl,” the man continues, “I was wondering… Is it true what they say, that witchers aren’t really human?”

“Well lookit ‘is eyes, Grimes,” a drunk man with an impressive red beard hollers from behind Rick. “‘em kitty eyes, that ain’t human, eh?”

“Yes, Abe, thanks for your input,” Rick says, rolling his own eyes. He shakes his head and sighs before looking at Daryl again. “Please don’t mind him. Abraham’s a good man, he just gets rowdy when he drinks.”

“Met my fair share of rowdy drunk men,” Daryl replies, remembering Merle in the old days when they used to travel together. They are not fond memories. He doesn’t miss the trouble that seemed to follow them back then. 

Sometimes, though, he wonders what befell his brother in arms. He doubts Merle’s dead: the dumb fuck always had more luck than wits. Used to say,  _ nobody could kill Merle but Merle,  _ and Daryl’s inclined to believe that. 

“Is that your type?” Rick asks softly, looking away, acting coy. He bites on his lower lip and Daryl can’t help the impression he’s being rather shamelessly - if still somewhat subtly - flirted with. 

Ah, hell. What’s he got to lose? “Prefer ‘em sober an’ pretty,” he replies with a nonchalant shrug. “‘em nice blue eyes ‘s a bonus,” he adds, just to be perfectly clear.

Rick chuckles, amusement mixing with fondness in his  _ nice blue eyes. _ “What a happy coincidence,” he says. “What do you know? I happen to live nearby, and my guest room is empty. It’s not as big as the rooms here, but maybe you could be tempted?... I assure you I’ll charge much less than Joe.”

“I’m gettin’ free dwellin’ as part of the contract,” Daryl reminds him in a teasing tone. There’s a vaguely exasperated voice in his mind telling him he really should concentrate on the job before he becomes all mushy with the grateful townsfolk; it sounds remotely like Merle, which makes it all the easier for Daryl to ignore.

“Oh,” Rick says. “Well. My place has better service,” he adds and winks. It’s more lewd than it needs to be, almost like a mockery, and Daryl snorts inelegantly into his tankard.

“A’ight, I’ll stay over at yer place,” he agrees. He finishes his vile drink and makes a disgusted face when he accidentally swallows the dregs and bits of stuff at the bottom of the mug. Damn. Must’ve been the remnants of years upon years of not-washing-dishes. Disgusting.

Still not the worst he’s ever had, but close.

He leaves with Rick after catching a few more promising rumors around the inn. People are obviously talking a lot about the attacks. So far, there have been seven victims, all of them men who weren’t especially liked around town. The general feeling around the place is that there’s actually a band of vagrants in the woods like what Daryl’s been guessing, or at most a very hungry black bear. The folk are scared, but not scared enough yet to believe there’s a monster. It sounds less and less like a job for a witcher.

Rick’s house is a bit farther down the road, closer to the town border than he would’ve thought from the man’s earlier remark. He doesn’t mind; the small house is wonderfully secluded among the trees, with the closest neighbor being a stable instead of something inhabited by other people. It gives Rick’s property the appearance of being private, and to be honest, privacy is what Daryl thinks they’re going to require if the night is to go the way he hopes it will. 

He follows the man inside and around the interior of the house. Rick shows him where the guest bedroom is and offers to draw him a bath. 

“Ain’t need one,” Daryl protests. “Only gonna get dirty tomorrow in the woods.”

“But you’d still be clean tonight,” Rick points out. “Don’t you think the effort might pay off?”

Daryl rolls his eyes, but agrees. He doesn’t think he smells too bad, but there are places about him that could use a good scrub, regardless of what other activities he might partake in tonight. And to be truthful, he enjoys a nice warm bath as much as the next man. He just isn’t overly fond of the fuss it takes to make it happen. 

Rick proves to be fairly efficient in the task, however, and before long, there’s a tub filled with steaming water waiting for Daryl in a separate bathroom. It smells of mint and chamomile, a nice and clean, non-invasive combination of scents much unlike what most baths offer in terms of fragrant oils. It’s quite pleasant to strip of the stiff leathers and rough cottons of his armor and clothes, and Daryl finds himself relaxing, the tension of his muscles leaving him as soon as he’s submerged in the hot water. He leans back against the edge of the tub and lets out a drawn-out sigh. Damn, this is good. It’s been a long time since he felt this good.

“Would you like some help washing up?” Rick asks, and Daryl almost forgot about the man’s presence. Almost; he wouldn’t have to be a witcher to feel the near physical burn of Rick’s eyes on him, watching him with greedy appreciation. It makes him briefly self-conscious: the sort of life he’s had left enough marks on his body to give anyone a fright, and Daryl’s quite sure he doesn’t make a pretty sight when naked. Rick doesn’t seem to mind the scars, though. If anything, the way he follows some of them with his gaze indicates admiration, not disgust. Being looked upon like that is seriously giving Daryl one hell of an ego boost.

“Go ahead,” he mutters, his voice coming out deeper and huskier than normal. 

Rick isn’t touching him yet, but even so, Daryl can already feel the arousal pooling deep within his belly. It’s been a while, he supposes; he’s not as easy to tempt into bed as other witchers he met in his time, and his tastes make it more difficult to find a willing partner. It’s no wonder he’s responding so easily to Rick’s advances. If they are even advances right now; even when the man just so much as presses a sponge dipped in soapy water to his shoulder and begins to rub against Daryl’s skin in slow, lazy circles, the witcher sighs in contentment and tilts his head back, baring his throat and enjoying the non-threatening moment.

The musky scent of another man’s sweat fills his nostrils when Rick leans a little closer towards him to reach his front and rub his chest with the sponge. Daryl pretends he doesn’t inhale it greedily; he’s got an image to uphold, he thinks, though he’s finding it harder than ever to remember why he should care about that.

“Must’ve been a while since you had a good bath, huh?” Rick asks in a voice laced with a teasing lilt, and Daryl opens his eyes to see the amusement on the man’s face. At first, he thinks Rick’s referring to the layers of dirt on him, and he has to fight any visible signs of embarrassment from showing. Almost immediately after, he realizes the man means how he’s reacting to the caress of the hot water all over him, soft, gentle motion of the sponge rubbing against his skin: Rick is mistaking Daryl’s contentment as coming exclusively from the bath and not from the fact that his touch is awakening very indecent feelings in the witcher.

So coy, for somebody who came out and propositioned him first.

“Been a while,” Daryl agrees, allowing himself to smirk at how the double-meaning words reflect his earlier thought. Rick chuckles, a warm huff of breath entirely too close to Daryl’s skin for it to still be something as innocent as a man offering another a bath. It seems that they both realize the way this is leading, and both are determined to make it to the destination as unhurried as possible, savoring the sensations on the way. Pretending, perhaps, that they’re not both so very hungry for the feeling of each other’s hands, mouths, and eventually their bodies coming together. It’s all there, the signs are there, in the way Rick’s grip on the sponge is a little too tight, his heartbeat a little too fast to be normal, his eyes a little too dark. Somebody else might’ve missed it all, but Daryl’s been a witcher for so much longer than not. 

A hunter, trained to spot every indication that his prey may flee… or not.

“Y’all gettin’ yerself wet,” he points out when Rick tries to dip the sponge in the water just above the level of Daryl’s navel. The bath hardly has any bubbles and the man must clearly be seeing the state of Daryl’s arousal between his legs, but he doesn’t comment on it; instead, he withdraws his arm and steps back. It’s temporary, Daryl doesn’t even get to question the man’s temporary absence from within his personal space before Rick’s back there, but with less clothing on his person. 

“This is easier, isn’t it?” He says, phrasing it as a question like he’s not positive Daryl is all on board with the proceedings. 

The witcher couldn’t be more on board if he stole a damn fregate from the harbor. “Be easier ‘f ya joined me here,” he supplies smugly, and he’s satisfied when he feels as well as hears the sharp intake of breath against his neck.

Rick takes no time to divest himself of the rest of his clothing. Daryl has a single moment when he regrets this course of events, because he would’ve rather enjoyed peeling off the layers of fabric from the man’s prone form; but in the next moment, that hardly seems to matter anymore, what with Rick getting in the tub and settling himself right in front of Daryl, between his rather invitingly spread thighs.

“Yes, this is better,” he murmurs, as if to himself, and he leans forward to resume his duty of cleaning Daryl all over with the sponge that is lacking in soap anymore. It’s no less pleasant like this, anyhow; maybe more, since their closeness now is not disturbed by any flimsy cloth barriers. There’s no doubt, if ever there was, that this is less about getting the witcher clean and more about a sensual, relaxing kind of foreplay.

“So, you never answered my question,” Rick says in a lazy drawl that does  _ things  _ to Daryl. 

“What question,” he breathes, his voice taking on a shivery quality very much connected to the fact that the hand holding the sponge is dipping well below the water level and entirely too close to a certain  _ upstanding  _ part of Daryl’s physique.

“I asked you back at the inn, before Abe interrupted,” Rick reminds him helpfully. Daryl frowns - it’s hard to concentrate on trivial conversation when there’s a hand brushing up against his thigh.

“I wanted to know, is it true witchers aren’t fully human?” 

Ah, yes. That question. Daryl licks his lips and shakes his head.

“I guess,” he offers in reply. Honestly, his guess is as good as any; he knows that the mutations gave him an edge over normal humans, a set of abilities which others would be hard-pressed to develop and an endurance many would be jealous of. He hasn’t got any unusual physical characteristics that would separate him from non-mutated humans, besides his yellow eyes that is. He’s not sure where Rick is headed with his inquiry. 

A dreadful thought pops up in his mind, unbidden: what if Rick is one of  _ those people?  _ The third type. The monster fuckers. Will his attraction to Daryl fade the instant he realizes that the witcher has no additional appendages or uncommon numbers of teeth in unexpected places? 

But Rick laughs at his answer, and leans forward even more. His hand between Daryl’s legs moves with purpose, the sponge forgotten, floating away somewhere behind him. Long, slender fingers wrap around his shaft and Daryl groans through parted lips. His eyes slip closed and his hips jerk up, the movement causing the water to splash out of the tub onto the floor of the bathroom.

Rick chuckles and licks his lips, lets his grip go slack before he tightens it again. Teasing bastard. With a wicked glint in his eyes, he presses on: “What I meant was… is it true you have  _ inhuman stamina? _ ” 

Oh.  _ Oh.  _

“Why don’cha find out,” Daryl growls, and pulls the all but giggling man into a kiss, finally claiming those pretty lips for his own-

-only to hear an  _ inhuman  _ sort of scream - howl? - filled with pain and anguish, before he’s being pushed away with enough force to knock all breath out of him when his back hits the wall of the tub. He jumps to his feet and out of the tub, alert eyes scanning the room in search of whatever assailant just attacked the two of them: to no avail. There’s nobody in the bathroom but himself and Rick.

Rick, who’s by the opposite wall, curled into himself, clutching at the center of his chest where there’s a sizzling burn wound bubbling with dark blood that goes spilling between his fingers.

“Motherfucking witchers,” the man spits out, teeth gritted on a painful sound. 

Daryl’s medallion tingles, drawing his attention.

Now. All witchers wear medallions which serve a double function: they signify their craft and school affiliation, but more importantly, they make it possible for witchers to sense and use magic, although the latter to a very limited degree. Daryl’s medallion is a fairly realistic depiction of a snarling bobcat which obviously marks him as a disciple of the School of the Cat. It’s got some sharp edges, and as Daryl looks down at it, unsure of what caused it to tingle, he sees what he instantly guesses are bloody remnants of flesh.

Rick’s flesh. 

He looks up at the man, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck are ya?” He asks. There he goes, subtle as a heart attack. 

But deep inside, he already knows, and he swears inwardly because he left his weapons in the bedroom. Was this Rick’s plan all along? To lure Daryl into his den, to kill him?

“Answer me,” he demands darkly. 

Rick growls under his breath. “Take a fucking guess,” he snaps, “or you can go and bring me bandages or something. This fucking hurts!”

“It’s silver,” Daryl supplies, confused. He expected to be attacked, not yelled at.

“Well, duh! I know it’s silver, I’m not dumb,” Rick bites out. “Fuck, can you get what I asked? Don’t wanna bleed out in here.”

Slightly dumbfounded, Daryl nods and goes to the bedroom where he left his satchel, even forgetting for the moment that he’s still naked. He retrieves a burn salve - how lucky is it that he’s got some leftover from when he was hunting that wyvern in the mountains? - and heads back to the bathroom, where he finds Rick hunched in the corner with a bunch of rags pressed against his chest. A pile of bloodied rags is already discarded next to him.

“Don’t look too good,” Daryl mutters as he sets the jar of salve on the floor and crouches at Rick’s side. 

“You don’t say,” Rick grits out. He pulls the bundle of rags away from his chest and swears under his breath when he finds the wound in no better shape.

“Let me,” Daryl demands, and he swats at Rick’s hands when the man lifts them protectively in front of himself. “Ain’t gonna hurt ya, c’mon. See my sword around here? Yeah, me neither,” the witcher says, rolling his eyes.

He could’ve taken the sword when he was in the bedroom, but he didn’t. He wonders what it says about him as a person, because as a witcher? It makes him a damn idiot.

“Yeah, take that thing away from me,” Rick hisses, eyeing the medallion hanging sort-of ominously from Daryl’s neck.

Daryl does the dumb thing and removes the medallion, sets it down on the floor and looks back at Rick. “Happy now?” He asks. “Can I go about cleanin’ that wound, or ya gonna wait ‘til it gets infected an’ kills ya?”

Rick doesn’t reply, but he also doesn’t back away when Daryl takes the cleanest rag from the bunch and dips it in the jar of salve, then presses it as gently as he can to the skin around the wound. The salve isn’t really magical, just a bit magic-infused, but the witcher hopes it’ll do the trick; he starts rubbing it into the edges of the burn, working his way to the center of the wound, ignoring how Rick hisses and even lets out an occasional whimper. 

When he’s done, the burn doesn’t ooze blood or anything else, even though it’s still raw and must hurt like a bitch. 

“There,” he says. “With yer healin’ factor, gonna be good as new in a few hours.”

Rick exhales loudly, leaning his head against the wall. His eyes are closed, his lower lip is impossibly red from how he kept biting it to stifle the noises of pain he probably wanted to keep inside. There’s a thin sheen of sweat all over his body. 

Daryl really wants to kiss him again. He shoves the thought to the back of his mind, because now is really not the time.

“Would you believe me if I said it’s just a severe allergic reaction to silver?” Rick asks tiredly, shaking his head. 

Daryl shrugs. “We both know it ain’t,” he says simply. “But we also know I ain’t gonna kill ya. Not ‘less ya make me. Wouldna wasted supplies on some fucker I wanted to end.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

And that - that’s a good damn question, now isn’t it? And honestly, Daryl isn’t sure he knows the answer just yet. He just can’t catch a break. It seems that lately, every time he wants to get laid, something has to go and ruin it. Something like a big-ass, horny troll in a cave, or a fucking werewolf with the prettiest blue eyes. 

_ At least Rick ain’t a troll, _ Daryl thinks to himself. He casts a quick glance at the man who’s slowly relaxing. The pain must be subsiding as the wolf’s abnormal healing factor takes over. Werewolves, in addition to being damn strong and very intelligent, also tend to be extremely durable sons of bitches, to the point that some can only be killed with silver directly to the heart. Daryl knows this because he fought one like that when he was still a rookie on the trail. Would’ve lost a hand to the fucker if not for Merle. That was the first werewolf Daryl ever killed, and he knows he’s going to kill plenty of them in the future. The question remains: will he have to kill Rick, too? He really hopes not.

It really sucks to be a witcher sometimes.


	3. His eyes are up there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl and Rick come to a mutual understanding. Sort of.

The silence between them grew comfortable over the last quarter of an hour they spent sitting naked on the floor, carefully not looking at each other. There’s something to be said about the bonding properties of spending time doing nothing but being bare-butted together; Daryl finds with a sense of amazement that he’s becoming relaxed enough to possibly fall into a light slumber just as he is, despite the fact he’s still slumped against the wall next to an actual werewolf. 

Admittedly, Rick doesn’t look especially threatening as he continues to breathe through his nose, with his eyes closed and one hand unable to keep from picking at the slowly healing wound on his chest. Every few moments, he picks too harshly at the scabbing tissue and hisses in renewed pain as a few droplets of blood pool on the surface. He drops the hand doing the damage back into his lap only to lift it again not a minute later. The act seems so childish, Daryl can’t help but roll his eyes. 

“Yer gonna scar worse if ya keep touchin’ it,” he warns. He knows that from experience, though in his case, the warning hasn’t been applicable for at least a few decades.

“I don’t mind scars,” Rick replies, petulant and haughty, and he purposefully scratches right where his flesh has finally managed to knit together. Obviously, the action ends in him letting out another soft hiss, but even so, he looks straight in Daryl’s face with a triumphant sort of defiance written in his pretty eyes. 

“Suit yerself,” Daryl says, shrugging his shoulders. 

His ass is beginning to hurt from the hard ground it’s seated on. The discomfort is far from unbearable, but it’s enough to turn Daryl’s thoughts to the promise of a warm bed, filling him with a sense of longing. He’s been on the trail for quite some time now; he slept in trees mostly, or in haystacks if he was lucky enough to find a barn on the way, and he misses the softness of a mattress under his back. One of these days, he’s going to seriously have to consider retiring in a cabin somewhere away from civilization. The first thing he’ll purchase for that cabin will be a king-sized bed with the softest damn mattress he can find. 

“So,” he mutters, breaking the silence again in an attempt to distract himself from the unpleasant stiffness he can feel in his butt. “What was yer game plan here, anyways? Ya invite me in to kill me or somethin’?”

Rick frowns and shakes his head, resting his hand on his thigh. He doesn’t lift it back up to the wound, likely losing interest in hurting himself further. Finally. “No, that wasn’t the plan. I know you’ll find it hard to believe, but my intention really was to have sex with you.”

“And then kill me?” Daryl presses on, eyes narrowing.

But Rick just rolls his eyes in perfect imitation of Daryl’s earlier reaction to his own immaturity, like he’s likening Daryl’s perfectly relevant question to  _ that.  _

He says: “No, I didn’t intend to kill you. Neither before nor after the sex. I don’t just- I don’t kill people. And I definitely don’t kill witchers.”

Daryl sighs. He asks: “Even if a witcher might definitely wanna kill ya?” - but he thinks he already knows the answer. He can’t even begin to fathom why he finds himself reluctantly believing Rick’s assurances, but that’s what he’s doing anyway. If for no other reason, he believes him because he felt the man’s hard length pressed against his thigh for more than a moment there, and it’s not quite so easy to fake  _ that.  _ So sex was definitely what Rick was after. The question is, what else was he planning to do?

According to him, nothing Daryl should worry about, but how far can a witcher trust a werewolf?

“Why take such a risk?” He asks, unable to wrap his mind around it fully. There were many other people in that inn Rick could’ve taken home tonight. Undoubtedly, someone with Rick’s good looks couldn’t complain about lack of interest after his company. Yet, he deliberately chose Daryl, even though he very clearly knew about his profession.

That’s not even stupid; it’s downright suicidal. If Daryl was anything like Merle, Rick wouldn’t have lived a second longer than it took him to utter a curse when the medallion burned him. Merle is one of those witchers who attack first and ask questions later, and then get upset when it turns out nobody is going to pay them for the kill. Had Daryl taken any of Merle’s blundering advice to heart, it’s likely Rick wouldn’t be breathing right now.

Lucky son of a bitch.

Rick looks away and Daryl thinks there’s a blush forming across his cheekbones. “Well, you’re gorgeous,” the man says in a tone that clearly states he’s not very happy about it, “and I’m known to be somewhat, ah, hot-headed sometimes. I get carried away when I see something I want. I saw you, I knew exactly what you were, but I just couldn’t stay away. I sort of hoped it would work out, you know. It could have, if not for your damn trinket.”

Daryl finds himself enjoying the sound of the man’s voice. It’s nice and deep, a low rumble in the semi-darkness of the room, and the way Rick pronounces things is, well, calming on the soul. He has an accent, Daryl notes, a familiar kind of drawl that a part of him recognizes from way back in the past. Makes him feel nostalgic as he realizes it reminds him of Leonard, the old witcher who as good as raised him back when Daryl first ended up with the school. He’s long dead now; he was killed on a hunt, who-the-fuck-knows when and where exactly, but Daryl can still remember the grisly stories his sort-of foster-father used to tell in front of the fireplace during long winter nights.

Rick’s grammar is infinitely better than old Len’s, but he still sounds similar in the way he draws out some vowels, how some are transformed into something else before they leave his mouth. It’s both soothing and endearing, and even with the knowledge of the man’s second, wilder nature, Daryl still catches himself wanting to capture the words with his lips, to see what they taste like on his tongue-

Fuck. Does that make  **him** one of the  _ third kind? _

“I asked already, but you said nothing. I need to know, Daryl: what are you gonna do, now that you know?” Rick asks, unaware of Daryl’s sudden horrible realization. 

“Uh,” Daryl says, eloquent as fuck. But he can’t be blamed for being speechless.

He’s not entirely sure how to proceed. A part of him - a dark, terrible part he just wants to drown in the cooling bath water - tells him that the night is still young and, hey, they can still fuck, no hard feelings. They can decide what to do afterwards when it comes to that, but why not make the most out of the situation while they’re both still there and mostly willing? That part is silently supported by his dick which twitches in interest as soon as the idea pops up in Daryl’s head. It’s been too long, definitely. He’s never going so long without getting off ever again. Affects his judgement, being horny.

Another part of him, the smarter part, possibly his brain, reminds him that there’s something killing people around the town, and while Rick is really nice and has a pretty voice, the fact that he’s saying it’s not him doesn’t really mean shit. Sentient monsters rarely go ahead and just admit to actually being monsters in front of witchers, not unless they’re entirely too arrogant for their own good. Rick might be dumb as a bag of bricks - has to be, to have gotten himself into this mess with a witcher of all people - but he doesn’t seem especially arrogant. Or evil, for that matter. Just stupid. But it might all be a ruse. He might still be angling to kill the witcher when he least suspects it. 

And one more part of Daryl, the one that’s horrified of the current proceedings, reminds him he is NOT the third kind. He does NOT do monsters, big teeth and furry limbs don’t do it for him, he’s just. Not. The third kind. Nope.

With a sigh that lets out more of what he’s thinking than he wants it to, Daryl shakes his head. “‘s fucked up, innit?” He asks, and he can’t help the hint of hysteric amusement creeping unbidden into the tone of his voice. Because the situation they’re in is… well, fucked up, there aren’t any words for it. 

_ A witcher and a monster walk into a bar… _

“It doesn’t have to be,” Rick says slowly, like he’s offering a solution. “You want to catch whatever’s out there killing people, right? I can help you with that. In exchange, you’ll leave me well enough alone after this is over.”

“Can we not negotiate shit butt-naked?” Daryl asks, feeling exasperated. This whole night is definitely NOT going the way he wanted it to, even though they’re both about as naked as he hoped they’d be. “Ya gonna bargain for yer life with yer dick hangin’ out?”

“What, is it distracting you?” Rick asks suggestively, shifting his position so that more of his body is on display. Including his junk. Which… yeah, might be distracting Daryl alright. 

What? It’s nice. He’s got a big, thick cock. Quite long, even only half-hard. Pretty enough that a single glance makes Daryl’s eyes cross and his mouth water. And to think, if not for his thrice-cursed medallion, he could’ve been sucking that already.

“Hey, witcher, my eyes are up here,” Rick says in a teasing manner, and Daryl looks up at him guiltily. He’d be the first one to claim witchers don’t blush, but he knows it’s just bullshit made up to make them seem more inhuman. He’s just not sure if it’s something invented by the fearful folk all over, or if the other witchers came up with this piece of rumor by themselves. They generally let a lot of crap circle around the world which originated in their own heads, to make them seem more distant. Maybe better than regular people.

Some people still probably believe that witchers don’t feel any emotion. Daryl wishes that were true; would make a lot of things much easier. For example, he wouldn’t be burning up from embarrassment in front of an exceptionally pretty, naked man who also happens to be a werewolf.

“You know… we can still do it,” Rick suggests, letting his legs fall open just a bit more. He’s getting more and more relaxed, like with each passing moment, he’s becoming more convinced Daryl isn’t going to kill him.

He’s not wrong. Struggling to act unimpressed, the witcher lifts an eyebrow in silent inquiry. 

“We can still fuck,” Rick clarifies, voicing Daryl’s earlier thoughts. He looks rather intrigued by his own suggestion, if the flush spreading down his face and chest is anything to go by. Daryl has to focus very intently to  _ not  _ cast a quick glance down between the man’s legs to check if his dick is also intrigued.

It’s not like he doesn’t have a very good guess about it anyways. 

“Don’cha think the mood’s kinda ruined?” He asks. The atmosphere should be, by all means, unsalvageable: Rick is injured, Daryl is mildly traumatized with the realization he’s into someone capable of turning into a wolf, and last but not least, there are people being killed in the woods around them. Maybe not right in this exact moment, but still. It’s happening, and Daryl was hired to stop it, and whether or not Rick’s got a very nice cock shouldn’t even be an argument in this equation.

None of these factors seem to change the fact that they’re both men, and men tend to be unreasonable when they’re horny, at least to a certain extent.

Fuck.

“We should. Ya know. Get dressed,” Daryl mutters, looking away from Rick’s very naked, very appealing form. Which he didn’t intend to even look at in the first place. He’s too distracted. If he’s not careful, it may cost him his life, but he can’t help himself. Rick is really just that pretty.

Yeah, double-fuck.

“That a raincheck? Or a hard no?” Rick asks, clearly disappointed.

Daryl hums thoughtfully. “We’ll see,” he decides, shaking his head to try and get his mind into some semblance of order. “Ain’t gotta pout at me, man. Not sayin’ no, alright? Just. Lemme deal with this shit outta there first.”

Rick sighs, very clearly pouting, but gets up to his feet. His moves are awfully graceful for someone who was only just writhing in terrible pain moments ago. Damn werewolves and their healing properties. Daryl wishes witchers could recover from injuries half that well. Would make his job much easier, that’s for damn sure.

They both put their clothes back on and Daryl feels especially dissatisfied with the night’s proceedings as he pulls on the fastenings of his leather armor. It’s not that he hates the thing, it’s well-made and has served him well over the last couple of months. It’s just that… well, it’s not exactly all that comfortable to wear any sort of armor over extended periods. The leather is hard and tends to dig into softer bits of flesh, leaving nasty bruises. Not that Daryl has many softer bits, obviously, his way of living doesn’t lend much opportunity to get fat, but he still bruises easily across his abdomen and all over his butt. It didn’t use to be such a prominent problem ten years ago, for fuck’s sake. He hates that he’s apparently becoming wimpier with age.

Damn. He’s getting old.

“Well then. About that offer of help,” Rick says, almost done with lacing up his pants which still tent obscenely at the front despite Daryl’s soft rebuke. “I’m afraid I can’t really tell you what’s been killing people out there. I tried to check it out on my own, but honestly, the woods smell like they always did. I found some human tracks heading here and there, regular animal tracks, and that’s it. No monsters.”

“Wraiths wouldna left no tracks,” Daryl points out. 

Rick nods in agreement. “Would’ve left corpses, though. Nobody’s found any corpses yet.”

Daryl makes a mental note of that observation. He knew this, obviously, from the stories he heard at the inn; the piece of information has a different weight, however, when a werewolf with a heightened sense of smell tells him he hasn’t found any bodies in the woods, either. Unless Rick’s nose is somehow defective, he should be able to track down a corpse from miles away by the faintest trace of the rotting stench. That he hasn’t likely means there aren’t any corpses in the Alexandrian woods.

What does it mean, though? People don’t just vanish into thin air when they’re attacked, be it by carnivorous beasts or even by other humans. There are no monsters in a witcher’s bestiary that would be capable of making somebody disappear without a trace. Something is always bound to remain: bones, slivers of clothing, tufts of hair. Inedible bits. Hell, even torn out guts with leftover feces would be a gruesome but helpful indication about a person’s horrible fate.

And, sure, a flying beast could possibly grab a full-grown man and carry him away somewhere else to devour, which wouldn’t leave a track in the woods. It’s not a theory Daryl is willing to entertain, however. The beast would have to be large and strong, and the witcher honestly doubts a gryphon or a wyvern could fly above the town unnoticed. Let alone more than once. There are guards posted at the walls, they would’ve seen a giant dark shape circling the woods. They haven’t, so in Daryl’s professional opinion, that’s not really an option. What does that leave? 

To be honest, Daryl’s more and more convinced there’s no actual monster in the woods, at any rate.

“I should go have a look ‘round,” he announces, pointing towards the door. He considers taking the horse along, but he quickly decides it’s not the best idea. Nelly is a new purchase, they don’t know each other yet and she doesn’t trust him. Daryl could calm her with a sign, but he prefers not to use any magic on his horses. Trust will come naturally as they travel together. Why use an equivalent of a battering ram where a bit of patience is more than enough?

Speaking of signs, though, he remembers his medallion. He picks it up from where he discarded it on the ground earlier. The heavy weight of the silver likeness of a snarling wild cat feels familiar when he fastens at the nape of his neck. 

Fully equipped, Daryl watches as Rick picks up his shirt and puts it on in a teasingly slow motion. By no means should a man getting dressed look this seductive, but Rick has that way about him that makes the smallest movements seem insanely sensual. Daryl starts to wonder if he shouldn’t keep his distance if only for the sake of avoiding the perpetual discomfort of his balls going blue with unresolved tension. It looks like it’s one of two ways Rick’s continued company can end for him: it’s going to either be that, or a completely uncalled for romp in the woods once both of their patience runs out.

With an ongoing investigation and so many unknowns, Daryl just isn’t sure he can afford either option.

Despite that, he can’t rightly make himself say no when:

“Can go with you,” Rick offers, tucking the bottom of the shirt into his breeches. “I know these woods like the back of my hand. I can also tell you more about the folks who went missing. Don’t tell me you don’t need as much information as you can get.”

The truth is, he’s right, Daryl’s got to admit. Werewolf or no, Rick Grimes is a good source of information. He’s someone local who admits to his own good orientation in the area. His familiarity with the missing people may be an advantage too, if there’s a need to recognize a corpse somewhere down the line. Plus, Rick may become aware of additional hints Daryl just isn’t equipped to pick up regardless of his mutations and any potions he might use. It’s better to take him along than to ignore his offer for help. 

Even if he’s mighty distracting in his easy sensuality, and potentially dangerous. 

With a defeated sigh, the witcher finally relents. “When we go out there, ‘s gonna be all work no play,” he warns, trying to make it out like he’s not directing the warning at himself as much as it’s directed at Rick. 

“Dunno what’s waitin’, but those people must’ve been gone  _ somewhere.  _ Unless ‘s all ya killed ‘em an ‘s now pullin’ my leg to kill me in the woods too, we got no idea what we’re gettin’ ourselves into. Ya fine with that?”

Rick shakes his head in what seems to be exasperation at Daryl’s light accusation. “Much as that might surprise you, I actually care about this town,” he says tiredly. “The people here have been good to me. Welcomed me as one of their own even though they know what I am-”

“Wait, hold up,” Daryl says, frowning. “They do?”

“What?” Rick asks, blinking at the unexpected interruption.

“They know yer a wolf?”

Rick laughs at Daryl’s confusion. “Uh, yeah, of course they do,” he says in a tone that suggests he thought it obvious. “Abe’s parents found me outside the town gates when I was two or three years old. Already was a wolf back then, but they took me in anyways. They raised me as their own. Never hid from anyone what their second son was. Most folks around here don’t mind. They treat me as their own.”

Okay, that changes things. The moment Daryl found out that Rick was a werewolf, he figured it was a secret. Now he’s learning it’s no secret at all, and supposedly the town don’t care; he doesn’t recall anyone at the inn supporting Joe the innkeeper's theory about a wolf doing any killings. Surely if the people thought Rick had anything to do with others going missing, they would’ve said something. 

“Any reason that Joe fellow kept up his theories ‘bout wolves, then? If he knows all ‘bout ya,” Daryl asks. It’s the only element in the story that doesn’t add up right now, and he needs it clarified before he goes making any binding decisions. Already, however, he feels like it’s okay to let his guard down a bit. 

Rick looks him straight in the eye. “Well, he hates me,” he replies in a light voice, “because I killed his brother.”

Well, shit.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be concentrating on The Shark Heart, but believe me, my brain gets fried if I have to limit myself to one story at a time. This should be updated about once a week, and it's not going to be very long. I'm thinking, 4-5 chapters at most, but don't quote me on it... It was supposed to be a one-shot when I started writing ;)
> 
> I wanted to write this thing long before the Netflix version of The Witcher aired, but alas, I got caught up in other projects. Well... toss a coin to your witcher? I guess?
> 
> Coming next: Daryl meets Rick Grimes!


End file.
